“Maybe I should assign half a dozen officers to your next dance to keep the peace.” Phil Keegan was enjoying himself immensely with the story of the quarrel between two old men over an ancient woman.
“How did you hear of it?” Marie asked. She herself had heard of the fight in the parking lot the following morning from Edna.
“Because Jack Gallagher came downtown to swear out a complaint against Professor Austin Rooney. He insisted on the âProfessor' part. He nearly fell into the hands of Skinner in the prosecutor's office.”
“Is that a name?” Marie asked, shifting her weight as she stood in the doorway of the pastor's study. Keegan was at his ease in his favorite chair and Father Dowling, behind the desk, his pipe going satisfactorily, waited while Phil answered Marie.
“Flavius Skinner, assistant to the prosecutor, a lean and hungry man who proceeds on the assumption that all citizens are potential criminals.”
Since little more than Gallagher's self-esteem had been injured in the attack he described, the usual thing was to soothe the accuser and promise to say a few harsh words to his attacker.
“Everybody came in to hear him tell it,” Phil said, smiling at the memory. “That's how Skinner heard about it, so he came down the hall on the run. Gallagher liked having an audience, I'll tell you that, and
if he thought we found it hilarious that he was talking about a tiff between rivals for the hand of a woman in her mid-seventies, he gave no sign of it. Before you know it, Skinner has whisked him off to his office, seeing what prosecutable possibilities there might be in the story.”
Phil took a sheaf of papers from his inside pocket and handed them to Father Dowling.
“There it is.”
It was Skinner's account of the interview with Jack Gallagher in his office.
“Does he pass these around?”
“My secretary knows his secretary.”
“Can I see it?” Marie said.
“I wonder if Phil wouldn't like some tea, Marie.”
“Tea! I will take some coffee, if any's made.” Marie turned to go, and he added, “I couldn't let you read official stuff, Marie. It's not for the laity.”
She gave him a look.
The account Jack Gallagher gave of the evening of the dance was not without its contacts with reality, but by and large it seemed to have come from his imagination. Austin's attempts to break in on him when he was dancing with Maud were lost in an account of the rude assault made on him, the manhandling, the blow that had sent him careening through the dancers to land on the floor by the bandstand. Jack described it as a “sucker punch.” His enemy had later stalked him through the parking lot where he sprang on him from the dark. Only the element of surprise had enabled this attack to take place, Jack assured Skinner. “Then the blackguard sped away in his automobile.”
“âBlackguard'?”
“He talks that way, Roger.”
“He's quite an entertainer.”
“I hate to see a man who climbed so high bring dishonor on himself in his old age.”
“Wasn't he a local radio announcer?”
“Roger, he was a radio legend. My wife loved that program.”
“So what will Skinner do?”
“He asked me to look into the particulars of the case.” Phil laughed. “It's a slow time and if anyone can handle those old people with respect it is Cy Horvath.”
“Phil, what of that girl who was pushed into ongoing traffic on Dirksen Boulevard?”
Phil frowned. “I don't think we'll ever learn what happened there. Of course Cy won't let it go.”
“Good for him.”
“I appreciate the sentiment, Roger, but now he can distract himself checking out Gallagher's complaint.”
“Do you think charges could actually be brought against Austin Rooney? I don't approve of people hitting one another, particularly men of an age when a little can do a lot of damage, but there was certainly provocation. The lady in question was Austin's date of the evening and Gallagher tried to commandeer her. But it doesn't seem to have the makings of a criminal case, Phil.”
“You have to know Skinner.”
The night of the dance, George Hessian and Rawley were at McGinty's Irish Pub drinking Guinness and trying to convince one another that the activities they were engaged in after retirement were more satisfying than they were.
“I am reading systematically through the novels of Trollope,” Rawley said, his lips creamy with stout.
“I've never read him.”
Rawley looked at him in disbelief and for forty-five minutes extolled the merits of the English novelist. George had often been impressed by the former financial officer's knowledge of literature.
“You must have thought of writing yourself.”
“It is not my gift.”
“You should try.”
Rawley looked at him. “I did try. That is how I know it is not my gift.”
It was more difficult to convey to Rawley the satisfactions George derived from writing the history of the parish of St. Hilary. His youthful dreams of authorship might seem mocked by the project that now engaged him, but in the privacy of his own heart he could admit to himself that however modest a parish history might be it did not detract his efforts from anything more impressive. Immersing himself in the school records brought him back to his beginnings. Long thoughts were induced by comparing the grade-school records of those whose subsequent careers he knew. Dallying over the details of such records did not advance his task, but then he was still in the preparatory phase of his great effort. He wanted to recover the spirit of lost times and these old records were a catalyst to remembering his own years in the parish school. Recently he had been tracking Austin Rooney and Jack Gallagher through their eight years at St. Hilary's school. Each report card had a mark for deportment which was glossed by a line or two from the teacher. Austin from his earliest years had been recognized as docile, inquisitive, bright. His IQ score as well as his grades were higher than Jack's, about whom teachers tended to write with more unction and enthusiasm. It was difficult to know the basis for this higher estimate of Jack Gallagher. It helped to think back from the man Jack had become and imagine that those long-ago nuns had foreseen something of the shallow fame that would be his.
In sixth grade Austin and Jack were thought to have possible vocations to the priesthood. They were both altar boys, Austin the president of the John Berchmans Society, of which all altar boys automatically became members. The rivalry between Austin and Jack seemed present from the beginning, though they excelled at different things. Jack had been the athlete of the two, something that seemed ironic when George learned that Austin had knocked Jack to the ground twice in the course of the much-heralded dance.
“Did you see it?” George had asked Edna Hospers.
“I saw Jack Gallagher on the floor.”
She seemed to be suppressing her partisan feelings for Austin in the dispute.
“What was it all about?”
“Maud Gorman.”
George learned that as schoolboys Austin and Jack had once fought on the playground during recess, but then it was Austin who had been vanquished. Nonetheless both boys had been summoned to the principal's office, equal in the offenses they had committed.
“Didn't you fight him when you were students here?” George asked Austin.
Austin took a step backward. “How would you know about that?”
“What was that fight about?”
A rueful smile. “He intercepted a note I had written to someone.”
“A girl?”
“I was not in the habit of writing notes to boys.”
It was that afternoon, in the nurse's office on the second floor of the school, that George Hessian had an inspiration. His history would become a memoir tracing the lives of Austin Rooney and Jack Gallagher from boyhood to old age. They had married sisters, they were both widowers now, and the fight over Maud Gorman seemed to bring
them full circle. Memoir or novel? George's mouth was open, he stared at the wall without seeing it; he was suffused with the ambition he had first known in the Navy. He had found his material. He would become a writer, a real writer. As he thought, he unconsciously brushed the notes he had been taking on St. Hilary's school to the edge of the desk. But the idea for the history had been providential, paving the way to this moment of inspiration. He smiled.
Tuttle and Tuttle consisted of Tuttle, the second occurrence of the name commemorating the father whose faith had sustained him through law school but had long since gone to that great appeals court in the sky. Clients were not plentiful and Tuttle was making do with part-time secretarial help: a battle-ax of a woman sent over from Tempting Temporaries, Hazel, who cleaned up Tuttle's correspondence, real and imaginary, in a couple of hours. Since he had her for the day, he asked if she wouldn't do something about putting order into his files.
“I could burn them. Those drawers are full of junk. Old newspapers, letters still in their envelopes.
Bills.”
The last was said with a none-too-subtle emphasis.
“Well, just clean up generally.”
She dropped the phone book on his desk. “If you want a maid, they're in the Yellow Pages.”
For all her severity, Hazel had a way of looking him over appraisingly. “I don't see any pictures of the wife and kids.”
“Whose?”
“You're not married?”
“I took a vow.”
“That's what you do when you marry.”
“Are you married?”
“That's pretty personal, isn't it?”
“To the spouses.”
Her laughter did not sound joyous, but she took to sitting in his office, which had the effect of cutting into his nap time.
“Do you have any clients at all?”
“I am on retainer to most of them. I don't get a lot of walk-in business.”
“I'm not surprised. Hidden away on the eighth floor of this dump with an elevator that has a will of its own.”
“My new premises are being readied.”
“Where, at Resurrection Cemetery?”
There was no doubt of it, she liked him. Tuttle was frightened. He had the sense that if Hazel decided she wanted to move right in he would not know how to stop her. Thank God he had only hired her for the day. The next time he availed himself of the services of TT he would specify anyone but Hazel Barnes. Peanuts Pianone, his bosom companion, looked in the door, saw Hazel at her ease in Tuttle's office and beat a hasty retreat. Tuttle shouted after him, but Hazel closed the door of his office.
“I thought you didn't get much walk-in business.”
“That's a friend of mine.”
“As opposed to a client?”
Tuttle felt imprisoned in his own office. Hazel's expression had softened. “This place is a god-awful mess.”
“I've always had trouble with help.”
There was a knock on his inner door and Hazel was on her feet, unnecessarily smoothing her skirt. She pulled open the door and slipped past the caller with her face averted. The man looked after her, then at Tuttle.
“You're Tuttle?”
“To whom am I speaking?”
“Matthew Skinner, prosecutor. Captain Keegan mentioned your name.”
“In what connection?”
But Skinner had come to the desk and now thrust out his hand. “I think we can be of mutual benefit to one another.”
It was a sentiment that had seemed to emanate from Hazel but minutes before. He could hear her banging around in the outer office. Was she going to clean up those files after all? That might turn out to be an equivocal favor.
Meanwhile Tuttle asked Skinner to be seated. Of course he had heard of Skinner, though apparently Skinner had not heard of him. Skinner was regarded by many as a comic figure, eager to put the full authority of the prosecutor's office behind the most trivial of cases. But Tuttle had an open mind. He certainly wanted to know what mutual benefit Skinner had in mind.
“You doubtless remember Jack Gallagher.”
Tuttle thought about it but no recognition came. “Go on.”
“He is, of course, the legendary personality of radio Chicago. He has been attacked on several occasions by his brother-in-law, most recently last Saturday night, twice, at a dance held at the Senior Center at St. Hilary's.”
“Father Dowling's parish.”
“You know him?”
“Professionally.”
“That may be helpful. Gallagher says the priest was a witness to one of the assaults. This took place on the dance floor itself, in full view of all those at the event.”
“What is to be done?”
“That is why I have come to you. I had thought there were sufficient grounds for prosecution, but I have been overruled.” Skinner paused as if he would like to go on about his travails in the prosecutor's office. But he overcame the impulse to self-commiseration. “As a criminal case, I fear it is a dead issue. But it grieves me that such
things can be done with impunity. I do, however, think there is a surefire civil case. Are you interested?”
“Is Jack Gallagher interested?”
“How could he not be? He was publicly humiliated by this man. He is seething with a desire for ⦠I was going to say ârevenge.' Let us say, for justice. A skilled lawyer could win a suit for considerable damages.”
“You say the assailant is his brother-in-law?”
“A man named Austin Rooney. A man of means. He is a retired professor of literature at the local campus of the University of Illinois.”
“Ah.”
“Captain Keegan described you as a bulldog of a lawyer.”
“You must remember that Captain Keegan and I are old ⦔ Tuttle stopped. “ ⦠acquaintances. I have known Keegan throughout my career as a lawyer. I'm surprised that you needed a third-party recommendation of my skills.”
“This is only my second year in the prosecutor's office.”
Tuttle smiled at such infancy in the profession. “Even so.”
“As soon as Captain Keegan mentioned your name, I hurried to you.”
“Wise,” Tuttle said. “Very wise.”
He drew toward himself an appointment book and shielded its blank pages from Skinner's view. “I could take on the case. If there is a case.”
“Do you doubt it?”
“It's what Jack Gallagher thinks that matters.”
“I could take you to him immediately.”
Tuttle did not fancy the idea of an intermediary. “Why don't I just drop in on the man? I will, of course, mention your name.” Tuttle picked up a ballpoint pen. “Just give me the particulars.”
“Of the assaults?”
“Maybe not. His address will do for now.”
Skinner read it out of a pocket diary he had plucked from his
pocket. Tuttle's ballpoint seemed to be dry. He fished several more from his desk and found one that would write. He jotted down the address and phone number of Jack Gallagher with apparent indifference. But his pulse was racing. With an ally in the prosecutor's office, his path would be smoothed. He could pick Skinner's brain for the most effective approach.
“And your own address?”
Skinner handed him a card. Tuttle read it with care and envy. It had been some time since a supply of business cards had been a high-priority item.
“I'll keep in touch.”
“How I wish I myself had been given the go-ahead on this.”
“If things work out as you suggest, perhaps a reference fee ⦔
Skinner made a horrified noise. “No, no. I couldn't take it. It would be unethical.”
Tuttle nodded affirmatively. “It is well to be sure of the professional ethics of a colleague.”
“But you mustn't suggest that I am a colleague in this. Even coming here ⦔ Skinner's voice drifted away.
“Mum's the word,” Tuttle said. “And Arrid too. Have no fear. No mention shall be made of your visit. Except, of course, to Jack Gallagher.”
“Couldn't you portray it as something that had occurred to you as a lawyer?”
His more fastidious colleagues frowned on such solicitation of clients, but Tuttle was not adverse to the metaphorical ambulance chase. He thought of Amos Cadbury, the custodian of legal proprieties in the community. What a reception Skinner would have gotten if he had gone to Cadbury with this scheme! Tuttle himself understood the junior prosecutor's zeal. He had hesitated to ascribe revenge as a motive to Jack Gallagher, but doubtless Skinner dreamt of being vindicated by a Tuttle triumph. Tuttle hoped he was right.